Henry's Sympathy
by spearofhope
Summary: Probably should have taken longer to work out the Kinks in this one. Whoops.


**Henry's Sympathy**

**July 4th, 2010**

**Spearofhope**

**The idea from this arose from my last playthrough of Silent Hill 3. When I got to That Part, you know the part – the Tragic end of Harry Mason – I wondered how it happened. Now, I've always liked to think that Harry is listening to the Radio when it begins to crackle, and he knows what's coming. With a serene, heavy kind of 'Was going to happen someday' look on his face (The Cultists had come for him before, after all), he grabs his Katana or something and heads up to the roof to investigate. There, he finds somewhere between Twenty to Forty Missionaries. He readies himself, spits out a line before going at them, and for one last time, he is the Harry Mason we knew, the Harry Mason of Silent Hill one, who would sacrifice everything for a daughter he picked off the side of the road, who always tried to do the right thing, and who killed a hell of a lot of Monsters.**

**Only One missionary Survives, the one Heather later deals with, who flees. Harry, however, is done for – the battle was a furious fight, and he was hit more than enough to know that it was over. Sparing maybe a last line of unaffected reprisal to a possibly present Claudia, stumbled back down the stairs, loosing blood fast. He collapses into his chair, choosing not to drink any Nutrition drinks or, hell, even call a Hospital. He instead chooses to bleed out in silence, remembering better times, and the people he met and knew – or loved, like his wife. Mourning those like Lisa or Cybil, and thinking with Quiet happiness that Heather will succeed.**

**BUT, anyways. I was explaining this story to Lady Metallica and we pondered if any other protagonists could do the same. The Idea enticed me – Reminded of Dustin Hoffman and Robin Williams' Hook, where the old Enemy returns to call out the Hero long since moved on, for a final battle. Would James tear his Green Vet's jacket out of the closet and grab his plank (Or Pillow), order Laura to hide and go out into his Backyard as monsters swarmed in, ready for the fight of his life? Well, no, probably not. James isn't made of the same Material Harry was. Heather? Maybe someday, the Cult would look to her once more for answers or a reborn God. But she was an angry teenager when we knew her, she'd be unrecognizable. We all know Travis has turned his back on that World and his demons, and Alex... eh... That leaves Henry. Now I had just recently also gotten the 2nd best ending to SH4 (mother), I wanted to build off of that, despite the difficulty of keeping the admirably hard to understand Protagonist in Character. And so I will try. So, after one of the Longest Pre-story Author's Note I've ever written, I will now give to you... My new story.**

After escaping with Eileen, Henry always knew the Room was still there, somewhere. Of course the Apartment Complex would remain where it was, and Room 302 would not merely disappear out of the building after Walter Sullivan's death, but more importantly he knew that Walter's Room, Walters world was still out, hidden in the folds of Reality, forgotten. It didn't bother him very much, though occasionally he did glance into his Closet as he worked, see the box he'd filled with Joseph Schreiber's Journal, and sigh. Henry never thought he could 'Save' the four of them – he had tried to find his way out with Cynthia at first, before he'd had a full appreciation for the situation he was in. Going back and thinking of the excuse for each time he went his separate ways with the Victims he'd met would be worthless. He knew he should have kept an Eye on Jasper instead of Reading 'The Descent of the Holy Mother'. He knew he should have followed Braintree around like a Lapdog, or just given a damn about Andrew after meeting him. He knew he'd failed. Distantly, he knew he didn't care. He wasn't as guilty as he should have been. But what could they expect? Henry was right there with them. After all, he was a Victim too, failed, but all the same. He didn't know much more than the four of them when he met them alive, and he knew nothing helpful. And when he did know something, he utilized it Pretty Damn well to help Eileen.

Then there was the part of him that reminded him that even if he knew from the beginning, he couldn't have helped them. Truth be told, that part of him was considerably the largest. Henry knew he was just about as useless as people got. He didn't work out, he only knew how to work a gun from the movies, hell, he'd only left his apartment to get food in the two years he'd lived there. He loved it in that room. He'd never had a home before – his Childhood and Highschool days are not fond memories of his; his parents were dismissive of his interest in Photography and his Peers and classmates ignored him as well as he ignored them – and he had found some measure of Peace in those Tan walls, in the room. He was more attached to it than he was to people. Henry was disheveled, unfit, and overall out of it. He was intuitive, but not with people. He was Apathetic. He was Perfect for the Final Sign.

"The Receiver of Wisdom." he could still hear Walter saying some days.

So he hadn't expected much for the people he met. He hadn't expected them to live, and he hadn't expected Eileen to live either. He knew he would have turned out like Joseph if she hadn't given him a reason to go on. The irony of course was that though he had chosen his Room over people, just Like Walter had, it was the Room that ended up being the Lost Cause.

When Walter had said that to him, that he was it, the Last of the Twenty one Sacraments, so on and so forth, Henry had so much boiling at the top of his mind. He'd wanted to tell the man that he understood. That Henry was the receiver of wisdom, yes, and Joseph had done quite the job imparting it. He had wanted to him that yes, he understood, he knew that Walter had the rawest deal, that he'd gotten screwed by fate. He wanted to explain to him that despite that, he'd Killed Nineteen people, Innocent people, most of whom had nothing to do with the unreal punishment he'd faced. He had even killed some people just for being nice to him. And now, he was going to try to kill the last two. He wanted to scream his lungs out at Walter. Henry still couldn't figure out why he hadn't. He'd just stood there, his brow furrowed, brimming with Impotent Anger that only surfaced as Dulled fury. Henry was useless, but he'd followed the Tome and finished it. He'd gotten retribution for the Victims, tried to save himself and the girl who only knew his face and name.

And he succeeded.

Later, he could rationalize that the part of Walter that Henry was looking at wasn't the part that gave a damn about his mother. That part was the kid, the kid who had been hurt again and again, and lied to by some witch, and ruined. Henry was staring at the Blood-flecked face of a man who only cared about finishing the bitter work he'd begun ten years ago in Silent Hill. So maybe that's why he kept his mouth shut, and only swung his ax and fired Richard's Revolver with that satisfaction, jamming each spear in with the memory of the name of the person it represented. Peter Walls. Sharon Blake. Toby Archbolt. Joseph. Remembering their names hurt his head, and it hurt even worse than when he'd seen their Ghosts, moaning and making that dull white noise. Cynthia, Jasper, Andrew, and Richard from 207. Once he started reciting their names, he knew he had to finish.

He had wanted to save them, as much as anyone would. Maybe less, though, but he did wish he could have helped them. But he didn't feel guilty about not being able too. But when he got a shiver down his spine or heard something that reminded him of that dull white noise, he'd recall that out there, the Room was still floating in his world. It had been absorbed completely into his memories and finally corrupted. Somewhere in that world, those Ghosts still roam. In that place between time and space, outside of Logic, either floating somewhere over, or shifted right under, our own world, there is a subway concourse where Cynthia still twitches and squirms under the Sword of Obedience; there is the smoldering ruins of the Wish house; there is an Apartment lobby with child-drawn pictures trampled on the floor; and a Grey and white room somewhere just like his, where a man who was lost to despair waits in futility. These things were where he found guilt. This was the way he had failed. Henry had failed to free their spirits. They were still trapped.

He never expected to see a Hole pop out of his wall, and if it did he would just cover it up. Sometimes he wished one would, though, so he could get a simple chance to contemplate the notion of going in there and searching, scourging the area for Holy Candles or Saint Medallions, to finish his work and rid the room from his broken, ancient memories. Maybe, he dreamed sometimes, once lit a holy candle could pull his world apart at it's rusted, broken seams that should have come apart long ago. Henry thought of the note he found near the beginning, of how he had used a ritual to create that world and rule it. When the King of a Land dies, the way the land was organized falls apart. But the land does not disappear. But when a Land is made of memories, and when the man who the memories belong to is gone, then how can the world persist? Henry tries not to think of this – when he ponders this seriously, the notion that Walter may still exist through the world of his memories seems genuinely possible. To him, this is the worst of thoughts. For, as Joseph had said, if he does not stop him, Walter will always find him, no matter where he runs.

Eileen tries to comfort him whenever he tells her of these thoughts, but he knows she does not share them, or even fully understand or consider them. As the man he is, both the Receiver of Wisdom and an introverted, quiet and thoughtful adult, he thinks more on these things than most would. Normal people try to put the past behind him, but Henry seems unable to. I guess, he sometimes surmises, that if you spend your life doing absolutely nothing, something that insane is the only thing you can think on. He didn't have any friends to take his mind of things, and though he saw Eileen frequently, he still spent the vast majority of his time alone, in his much less appealing new apartment. Did he gain anything? Yes – perspective, and a very dear person. Did he lose anything? Nothing more important than his room. The real question was, did he Learn anything? For this, he was ashamed – he was as vaguely apathetic as ever. The only person he really cared about was Eileen, and he still didn't like leaving his apartment. He felt even more useless now – he had received wisdom, used it, and now he has no purpose. He never had had any, he supposed, but he had gotten a taste of what it felt like to be meant for something. To put it simply, it was hard to adjust.

Concerning Eileen, the beautiful, kind young woman he was still sometimes surprised to know, Henry had no direction either. He brought her flowers on their second day out because he wanted to date her. He always had wanted to, it was something he couldn't, and would have no reason to, deny. Henry felt for her, as a person, and he knew she was almost like him in a way. She had reciprocated and they went on a couple of dates. Nobody ever said anything or explained it, but as time went on and their relationship hadn't advanced – he often thought of making love to her back then, but personally wasn't much for leading, and more importantly it just never seemed right – it became apparent that they would remain very close friends. He was happy with that. He did not pine for her, or drown in unrequited love her. He loved her as a friend, as she did to him. He was not unfulfilled.

What really stands out to him is that he Occasionally wonders the strangest thing of all. He sometimes wonders if it would have been better if Walter had succeeded. Sometimes, he wonders if Walter did succeed.

Henry was still leading an empty, albeit slightly more populated, life. His work remained the same, though he goes out to shoot much more often these days. He hasn't found a purpose. He hasn't changed any more since the end of that event than he had in the 2 years prior, He wondered from time to time if he was dead. He knew you're not supposed to be able to close the door on something like that as he had. He knew that you shouldn't be able to just slip back in. He knew that if things made any sense, it wouldn't be over.

It wasn't.

–

Henry could hear Eileen knocking, and put down the wineglasses he was cleaning and headed over. He opened the door, giving the faintest of smiles – he was not an emotive man, but Eileen had been wonderful at decoding his faint gestures and changes, and smiled as wide as if he had broken out into a grin. "Hello, Henry." She said, quickly wrapping her arms around his neck in a hug before stepping past him and looking around. He turned slowly, standing at the door, arms hanging at his sides. He had always done things like this – linger when he should have followed, stopped when he should have continued after. It was just his way of life, a subconscious motor reaction to the presence of another. He closed the door, remaining where he was as Eileen turned to look at him with a subtle pause.

"...Wine?"

Henry blinked, looking at her out from under his hair, "...right." He headed into his Kitchenette, taking the bottle out of the Fridge. He pulled the cork, pouring her a glass, the bottle cool in his hands. He lifted his head, looking over to her as she removed her winter coat and set it down on his Couch. She looked the same as she had before he knew her, glancing around fittingly, turning her head suddenly to look in another direction, holding there until she turned again to examine another facet of his warmer, brighter apartment. The walls of this one were a calm red, and the furniture wasn't dull gray like in 302. She seemed to like it. Seeing her like that brought back a twinge of his old feelings and desires of her, but he dismissed them. He knew it was merely a part of watching her, like he had through the hole, that brought him back to the past. He walked over to her slowly, holding the two glasses of Wine and holding one out to her.

"Hope you like white." he said, his clear high voice a bit weak.

"MmHmm." She said cheerfully, taking it and taking a sip. "So... what's on the Agenda?" She smiled.

"I don't know..." He said, "I... just rented a couple movies..." he gestured back over his shoulder, "Do you want to..."

"Sure." She smiled, heading past him and over to the Couch. He turned with her, following, and sitting down next to her.

It was a pleasant Evening, and he enjoyed his time with her. However, the pleasant evening ended as Henry headed to get a snack, but not before glancing off to the the corner of his vision, at the door. There was something there.

He stood in confused silence, looking towards the door as he had almost a year ago. He took a couple of steps forward, softly plodding across the carpeted ground. There, at the bottom of the door, was a slip of red paper. He blinked, his mouth opening as his jaw went slack. He had to blink several times before accepting it's existence. He took a few more steps forward until he was at the door, hearing but not registering Eileen's voice behind him, calling his name and asking what he was doing. He knelt, picking up the paper and examining the slip, his brow creasing with worry. It was blank, but undeniably from Joseph's red Typewriter. _He's still there._

"What... the hell?" Henry blinked, stepping back, and Eileen came over, stopping as she saw it from over her shoulder. "Oh... oh no." She said, her face dropping with fear and concern.

"It's blank..." Henry said. "What could it mean?"

"...Nothing. It could be nothing. Just a random... coincidence." Eileen stammered, eyes brimming with thought. Henry turned, looking at her with the same look of concern and protective instinct as when he had been in that world that now loomed once more above them.

"No... it's something." he said, looking down again at the paper.

"So what, then?" Eileen blinked, "What can you do?"

Henry turned, the air filled with a pregnant Pause. "I don't know... nothing, yet." He said weakly, turning the paper over and running his hand across it. "I guess... wait." He said uncomfortably and turned to look at her, his eyes expectant.

"Yeah..." she said reluctantly, "I guess."

They drank the entire bottle of wine that night and slept on the couch, holding each other against the fear, the uncertain future. When Henry awoke, there was another slip of paper under the door, this one covered with blood, like the memo Frank Sunderland had tried to get through to him when he was trapped. It occurred to Henry that all the allusions or thoughts he could have would be linked to those long six days, considering he has nothing to think of since. His life was eventless without this madness, and furthermore it seemed meaningless. Maybe – and this was one of the weakest maybes of his life – this was a chance to get his life straight. To bury the past once and for all. With that, he woke Eileen, a serious look in his eyes.

"Henry..." She said, now sitting at the table. "You should think about this."

Henry paused, turning to look at her. He was confused, and was probably making a bad decision, even as he thought the very notion. But he hadn't even taken charge more than once or twice when fighting Walter Sullivan. He felt within himself a determination that seemed entirely unlike him. And the strangest thing was that he liked it.

"I know..." Henry said, turning and grabbing a messenger bag from the counter, "But I have to end this." he said sternly, turning to look at her. "You'll stay here, right? I-in... the real world?"

Eileen was silent for a long moment. "Yes, Henry." she finally said, looking up at him. "Just... be careful." She said, offering a faint and hopeful smile.

Henry nodded, gazing at her for a moment longer before turning and opening the Trunk in his back room, looking in. He lifted Richard's Revolver and the Ax, and after placing these and some Ammo in his bag, he lifted a half-cracked Saint Medallion and lifted it over his head, putting it around his neck. He frowned, mussing his hair and standing, slinging the bag and reaching for a sturdy leather jacket that would provide some protection. At the very least, this time he knew what he was facing, and would be able to prepare accordingly. Henry paused at that thought, and went to his Refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of Chocolate Milk and putting it in his bag. Finally, with a first aid kit, he completed his preparation and stepped back into the Living room where Eileen stood.

"I'll see you, Okay Henry?" She said softly. He gave a nod.

"Sure."

–

Henry arrived at the Apartment complex, stepping out of his car and looking at the U-shaped building he hadn't been at in a year. It took a good amount of courage to approach the door, and opening it took even more. But behind it, he was immediately surprised to see Mike, his old Neighbor, and Frank Sunderland. Mike, who he had first considered a squirrely kind of man, was actually rather straightforward and normal, despite certain habits he had. Strangely enough, Frank was the odd one, an old man who apparently had an absurd lack of common sense in his family genome. However, Henry realized that between the three of them, he was the real freak of the day.

"Mr. Townshend?" Frank said, turning, "Well... what brings you back here? Did, uh..." he paused, frowning and consulting his memory, "Did you leave some things here? No, no... that was too long ago."

"No..." Henry said, looking between the two of them. "I..." He blinked, "Is there a Tennant in Room 302?" He asked.

"Nope." Mike responded, shifting and wobbling casually on his feet to shift his weight, "Nobody wants to live there."

"Can't seem to sell anyone on it." Frank shrugged.

Henry nodded solemnly, a hand resting on the bag slung from his shoulder, "Would it be alright... if I saw my old Room?" he asked, swallowing weakly.

"Why, uh, sure..." Frank said, turning and reaching for his keys, "Can't say I haven't felt Nostalgic from time to time myself... why? Thinking of moving back in?"

"No- ...no, sorry. I just wanted to see it." he said.

"Well, follow me., then." Frank briskly turned, leading the way across the lobby and up the stairs. Henry followed him, Deja-vu and shivers alternatively running through his body. He suddenly felt he had been crazy to consider coming here. What does a slip of paper have to do with his life? With his world? He could he reconcile this stupid venture with the perfectly pleasant life he was living before the idea of this mad adventure graced his mind?

But they were already at the door – Henry had unfortunately missed his opportunity to turn back. He looked to Frank slowly, his body sluggish as he expectantly waited for Frank to opent he door. The keys jingled as he found the right one and turned it, the door creaking open. "Well... Here you go, Mr. Townshend." he said, nodding.

Henry nodded, "I'll.." He started, but stopped before saying a sentence he hadn't even formulated, and merely waved his hand in a goodbye that seemed more like a dismissal. He pushed the door open a little further, and stepped into the dark room, and as soon as he had, the door swung shut.

–15-

Henry turned with a gasp, feeling immediately and completely different. The room itself had changed drastically in the time it had took for him to blink, and he found himself staring at Room 302 of the past. The candles still burned without flickering or consuming the wick or wax; the color was still completely drained from all but a few things; the air was chill, even cold, and utterly still. Joseph Schreiber was gone.

Henry inched deeper into the apartment, looking at the scattered furniture, gently reaching forward and setting a hand on the Record player as he turned to look back at the Hall. He moved down it carefully, surprised at what he saw at the end. The Wall that had sealed off the storage room was gone, destroyed just like the one in Henry's room. On the floor was a red slip of paper, it's color jarring in comparison to the rest of the room. He knelt, picking it up carefully and reading it.

_Whatever happened, it didn't fully work. We're no longer his thralls, but we're still here. I can't focus... it hurts._

_Joseph Schreiber._

Henry blinked, his face loosening in shock. This was new, clearly – had he gotten free and resumed his diary? Any other Possibility seemed impossible. Maybe killing Walter had enabled him to gain some measure of full sentience back. However, the thought of encountering the man in his free form twisted a knot in Henry's Stomach – he had barely been able to accept his presence when he was stuck to the ceiling. Giver of Wisdom or no, he was a ghost, just like all the others.

Without another thought, Henry inched forward and moved through the hole in the back wall, looking around the storage room. Walter was nowhere to be found, nor was the cross or bizarre instruments. Instead, a Hole was visible on the back wall, fully formed like the one in Henry's Laundry room. He inched closer, touching the dull stone edges, and lifted a foot into it, frowning. He had hoped to never again have to do this, but found himself drawn forward regardless. He didn't have to try the front door to know he wasn't getting back out anyways. He felt the knot In his stomach worsen as Vertigo struck in all it's power, making his knees and bladder weak as some intrinsic force pulled him into the hole, and he, powerless to spot it, rolled his eyes back and Submitted.

–16-

When Henry awoke, he was face down in the floor of a Bathroom, his cheek slightly dabbled with grime from the floor. He lifted his head wearily, placing his hands firmly on the ground and lifting up, turning to his right and jumping, pulling himself swiftly onto his ass in shock and scrambling back, his heart Racing. The mannequin in the stall had given him a hell of a fright. He stood, looking warily at it and adjusting the strap of his bag. The doll's face was in a grimace of Terror, her hand outstretched. He hadn't even felt horrified last time he had seen her, but the pit of his stomach was making him want to puke. Cynthia's helpless gaze stared back at him, an inanimate object created in a world and time where the Real Cynthia Velasquez still roamed and seduced. It was surreal.

He recalled vividly seeing this as he stepped out of the Hole, realizing that the coins in this thing's hand was what she had meant when she said she had a token. He hadn't given a second thought to the horrible visage, hadn't considered the implication of this. He rubbed his forehead, and turned, vomiting whatever was left of the wine and dinner he'd had last night into the toilet in the next stall. He coughed, stumbling back and setting his back against the wall. Had he really been so ignorant?

After collecting himself, Henry left the bathroom, looking to the left and right. Despite himself, his thoughts immediately went to Cynthia's ghost stamped to the ground, a blade jammed in her gut. He stepped calmly in that direction, wondering what situation she'd be like if Joseph had been able to leave. He arrived in the Concourse, the Escalators to King or Lynch street line still humming in the background. He glanced to his left, and in the Corner he could see her, her writhing form and pale skin bright in the darkness. She was moaning in despair. Some of the sounds were words.

"Cynthia-!" he stumbled forward with a gasp, getting over to her. She groaned again, her long hair coursing like water or blood as she turned her face to him.

"Ooh... Henry..." She said dully, almost sleepily, the Tang of her voice blasting Henry back in to the past for a moment. "I'm stuck..."

Henry tightened his grip around the Triangle-handled sword, not even considering his options before yanking it out. She gasped, lifting slightly into the Air. No aura protruded from her, and his medallion did not Hiss, Vibrate or burn. She was still a Ghost, but the rotten Corruption of Walter's murder seemed gone. She was Cynthia, but different, and abstractly wrong.

"You saved me." She managed. "My Hero." she smirked.

Henry stepped back, distantly alarmed. "Cynthia... you're... What the hell?"

"I don't know, Baby." She said, inching forward. "One second, I'm wrapping my hair around your throat..." she said, and Henry got a look at her face. It was pale and blood drenched, but her jaw was not dislocated like when she was a ghost. She looked almost Human. "And the next, I'm just like this." she was flowing her hair forward once more, spreading over his chest and flowing over him, through the holes between his shirt buttons and along his chest. Henry took another step back.

"What are you... doing?" he said quietly.

"I don't want to leave anymore, Henry. But I'll give you that Special Favor anyways." The Knot in Henry's stomach flipped upside down and seemed to do an angry dance, and he was backed up against the wall, Her hands snaked to his shoulders as the hair wrapped fully around his back and pulled him closer into contact with her. He blinked, his face looking surprised and at a loss for words. Somehow, it seemed different. He had to remind himself that this was the same man as before. This was gentle, soft and silent Henry, the same tanned skin, the same soft brown hair over his eyes, in fact he was even wearing the same damn shirt. But Cynthia kept moving.

"You want me right?" She said, and he did. He knew how wrong it was, on several levels, a few of them purely physical, but he just wanted her so damn bad. He always had. He could already feel himself pressed against his jeans, but tried to inch away for the sake of his own conscience. She was right there, and he knew deep down that it wasn't a trick, it wasn't a lure. She meant every word, and he let his head fall back slightly against the wall as her hair snaked it's way down his stomach, and finally wrapping itself around him gently. He blinked, his hand on her, moving across the numbers etched into her breast, and without a second through Henry shoved her away, the hair receding with the speed of a bullet, leaving only a shivering feel as it fled.

"Y-you're more than this. You were a person." he stammered, unsure how to say it. "You're more than just how much I want you." he swallowed weakly, and he could see something in her face. It was like a mixture of many different emotions playing across her facade – first confusion, hurt and surprise, but the most definite looks were somehow a mixture of Anger and Elation. She blinked, and the look faded.

"Henry... I waited my whole life for someone like you... someone sweet... not a people person..." She frowned, her face turning miserable, "Won't you accept me? You have to-..." the amount of blood coursing from her wounds began to grow, exponentially. Henry stumbled back, frightened. Cynthia's face twitched, and she opened her mouth again, having trouble speaking against the flow of blood. "H-Henry... you have to... I'm here for you, that's my purpose here! Please... it's what you want, and I need you too- I-I... Augh, Ach-" she knelt, bleeding profusely, "Henry!" she managed, distorted as he Jaw twisted, and she looked up. When she did so, Cynthia was gone. The Ghost was all that's left.

The Medallion began to Hum.

Henry stumbled back, reaching into his bag and grabbing his Axe and lifting it, stumbling back. The crack on the Saint Medallion grew slightly as it Vibrated, and Cynthia groaned forward, the Hair that just moments ago caressed and enticed him struck out and made a thousand little pierces in his chest, drawing him closer. He gasped, swinging wildly with his weapon and hitting her in the side of the head, sending her to the ground. The Ghost slithered away like a speedy snake, but Henry was quick to the draw with his gun and a Silver bullet – of the two he'd found, he'd put one in Andrew Desalvo's ghost and kept the other. He fired around, and Cynthia was on the ground. He looked after the Sword of Obedience, but it was on the far side of the room.

He turned, starting after it when hair caught him up and he fell. Apparently, the bullet didn't have the same potency as it used to. Likely, neither would the sword. He rolled over so his back was to the ground, and lifted his ax, swinging at the Ghost's midsection, her head hung low and her feet an inch or two off the ground. The Ax connected, embedding into her. Cynthia fell to her knees, and then to the ground. Henry pulled himself up, blinking as a Bright red light began to envelop the form of the woman, filling the Dark concourse and becoming painful to look at. Henry lifted a hand for a good moment, and by the time he lowered it, Cynthia was gone, a bloody ax sitting uselessly on the ground. He slowly inched forward, leaning over and lifting it from the floor, looking around.

"C-Cynthia?" he called, swallowing weakly. Almost as if in an answer, a Hole suddenly opened up near the entrance to the two Train lines, just like the ones in his bathroom and Laundry room. He saw it from the corner of his eye, and turned, once more confused and disturbed, What had just happened? Was Cynthia really gone? Henry started to slowly move forward, gazing towards the Hole with worry. It seemed like he had to confront Cynthia before moving onward. So... nothing to do but move forward. He stepped into the Hole, and this time will a less intense feeling of unease, fell into the pull of the Hole.

-17-

Henry stumbled out of the hole wide awake, rolling to the ground and ending up rolling to a stop with his legs out in front of him, in a strangely regular pose of sitting cross-legged. He blinked, glancing around and pulling himself up and brushing himself off. He was in the Industrial area of the Forest world, the Foul liquid plant that seemed to be completely useless anyways. The place was a little less dark than before, more ordinary and less like Walter's Childhood memory of the Dark and Scary forests. Henry turned, replacing his Ax in his bag and starting out towards Wish House.

As Henry walked, he wondered what else was in store for him. Without a doubt, Jasper would be here. Henry had come to understand that there was a Certain form to this world, a plan to be followed – a routine, even. It was nothing surprising. Walter was a child who grew up in an intensely controlled environment, how could he not grow to expect routine? Henry frowned, glancing around as he started past Nakehona. He looked around warily, waiting for Jasper to descend from the skies, alight.

"H-h-hey, man..." a telltale voice spoke from the far side of the rock, and Henry started around, concerned.

"Jasper?" he asked, spotting the man. He wore the same clothes, the green shirt and the Creepy demon on the front. His hair was singed and smelling of smoke, and his skin was red and crinkled, even cracked in places. But he was not the gibbering, flaming man he'd seen before.

"Y-y-yeah." he said, "The N-nosy guy told m-m-me to wuh-wait here for you." he said. Henry frowned, tilting his head. Nosy guy had meant Joseph, right? And did the Red devil mean Walter? Why couldn't he ever speak in names? Henry distantly wondered how Jasper referred to Henry to others, and a part of him somberly said 'The K-Kwuh-quiet guy'.

"Joseph, right?" Henry asked, stepping forward. He immediately felt a wave of gross Pity as he saw Jasper's torn up face, the lanky look he had earlier gone, and instead a twisted look straight out of Leroux or a Horror Film. "He's here?"

"N-n-no." Jasper replied, leaning against his knees and dangling his forearms lazily. "He just t-told me tt-t-o t-tell you that huh-he's w-waiting for you."

"Waiting for me..." Henry frowned, looking at him. "What did he mean?" Jasper only shrugged, turning his head away in what looked decidedly like a Sulk. Henry blinked, the pity overwhelming him. "Are you alright?" He asked quietly, then regretted it. He could be such an idiot sometimes. He blinked, still desperately wanting the Pity and the guilt to go away, so he reached into his bag and pulled out the milk.

"Ch-..." Jasper turned, blinking at the sight. He looked like a poor little boy, or a dog – yet somehow, no creature on earth could explain how sad and pitiful he looked. And Henry couldn't stand it. He blinked, looking at the man, before pausing. There was something wrong with this, like before. And it was intrinsically twisted to a point, to a recognition of what was wrong. That pattern occurred to him again, and Henry drew back the Chocolate Milk, to see Jasper's face turn saddened.

"I can't... h-h-hhave it?" he asked.

"No." Henry said, his voice quiet and calm, but distinctively Sad, "I've nothing more for you, Jasper."

Jasper blinked, licking his dry lips subconsciously, "th-thirsty..." he moaned.

"No."

"Chocolate..." He moaned, looking down. Jasper has begun to lift of the ground. Henry reached for his Revolver, stepping back. "Chocolate..." he groaned again, sounding like he was thirsty to the point of pain. He groaned, a groan inerlaced with the moaning white noise, and Henry moved back quicker, lifting the gun. Jasper turned to look at him before his head lolled forward, embers popping up over his skin, working their way under his flesh. "So... thirsty..." he said, lifting further off the ground, and with a sudden wave of breezy, heavy heat, Jasper ignited, flames coming from every inch of his body as he moaned again. Henry pulled back the hammer of the Revolver as his Medallion began buzzing, and pulled the trigger, each thudding impact causing Jasper to float backwards, trying to catch himself. Henry fired until the all six shots were spent and returned the gun to it's place, drawing the Ax and stepping back. The weapon had already done considerable Damage to the floating apparition, He moved back, lifting the ax and preparing to avoid the flames.

The Jasper ghost lurched forward, his head lolling downwards as he moved towards Henry. The man swung, the Ax Embedding itself in Jasper's burning head. Henry stumbled forward, using Jasper's falling height to his advantage, and swung the Ax again and a gain, bludgeoning him and tearing apart everything around his shoulders.

In a moment, Jasper with nothing but a Body, collapsed above the head. Henry stumbled back in horror and disgust at what he'd done in the heat of battle. He swallowed weakly, falling backwards and dropping his ax as the Red light returned to claim another corpse. Henry covered his face with his blood and soot stained hands, feeling Nauseous again. He remained blind to the world around him until the light – and more importantly the Bludgeoned Body – was gone. Henry opened his eyes to see a hole in the center of the Mother stone, blinking at the sight. He turned, reaching into his pocket and silently reloading Richard's Revolver before standing and looking around. It was harder than most could imagine, reliving his greatest failures. Living a life of Solitude is easy knowing you'll never fail anyone.

Henry turned, approaching the Hole and looking deep within, adjusting his bag again. He only had two full load's worth of Revolver bullets left, so he'd have to save them. He stood, stepping in and crawling into the Force, being drawn through the twisted roller coaster of pipes and holes, his eyes staying wide the whole time.

-18-

Henry arrived in a head, the smell of rotten food, mold and blood filling and overpowering his nostrils the moment he arrived. He pulled himself warily to his feet, keeping his Ax out just to be safe. He looked around, seeing that he was in the Torture room behind the Kitchen. He recognized this as the site of Andrew's Murder. He looked around the tile walls of the Water prison with Distaste, frowning unhappily. He hated this place the most, and hated the idea of doing what he was about to do. He knew what Andrew had done. He was a bad person, who had played a considerable role in what Walter had turned out to be. He pressed onwards, however, knowing that it was necessary. He entered the Hallway and turned, glancing to the right. Somehow, he had the feeling the Andrew had gotten out of the Sword of Obedience he'd pinned him with, and would be in the Surveillance rooms. The notion came out of nowhere and into his head, as if possessed.

Henry climbed the ladders all the way up to the Second level, where he found Andrew staring into the room Henry remembered as being Walters. He stepped forward, tilting his head slightly, pushing aside a bit of obscuring hair. He lifted his arms in a faint shrug. "Andrew..." he said.

The man wheeled around, surprised. He looked like he had as a ghost, yet his face looked less empty and mad. He was just like the others – free, but still dead. And he'd have to set him free to, if that's what it really was. He felt worried, rolling his neck. He had no idea what to do.

-20-

Eileen had sat in the room silently, her mind going wild. If Henry had somehow made it into that place, that hell that they had both almost died in, what could he do? And would it be a ridiculous dream to hope for him to make it out alive? If only he'd listened to her, considered things, or just explained why he was doing it. She swallowed, downing the last of her third glass of wine. She felt horrible, all twisted up. The thought of Henry dying was a sharp and painful one, and though it did not occur to her as it constantly did to him, she was alone without him. She had enjoyed casual friendships and fun parties, but as time wore on, she became sick of them. She'd been through so much, and heard the worst, saddest story of her life, and everybody else had just spent that day sunbathing or at the mall, or sleeping. She was horribly out of place, and Only Henry could understand her. She had changed, while he had not.

The phone rang, and Eileen tentatively lifted it off of the charger, answering. "Hello?" She asked.

"Miss Galvin? This is Frank Sunderland." the Superintendant stated. Eileen's heart jumped. Was Henry out? Or hurt?

"Y-yes." she said.

She had always been a strong girl. She had been popular and fun, and though she didn't have things easy, she always had the best of attitudes. While her outlook on life had not changed, her dependency on him had. She always hated the idea of a woman falling apart without her man. And now, the man who wasn't even her man was gone, and she could barely talk without stuttering.

_Damn it..._

"You're friends with Henry Townshend, right?"

"Yeah, we're friends now... why? He was going over."

Frank's voice paused for what seemed an awkwardly long time, "...yes... he came in earlier. He wanted to see his room, and now he's gone. I was just wondering if he left without telling me."

Eileen exhaled, sighing. It was partially good news – he'd made it in, and was doing whatever he thought he had to do. However, he was gone, disappeared. What did that mean?

"Probably just out doing something in town..." Eileen managed.

'Hah, you're right.." Frank said. "Sorry to bother you, Miss Galvin. Nice talking to you again."

"Yeah..." She said, pausing, "You too frank." She said, and slowly Hung up.

-18-

Henry couldn't do it anymore.

Andrew had talked nonstop for the past half hour about inanities Henry couldn't even begin to understand. He glanced around, frowning, and started to turn.

"You're going?" Andrew said, in a tone that was almost expectant.

Henry frowned, narrowing his eyes. This was exactly what he expected. Apathy. To ignore him.

He turned, looking at him. "I'm not leaving." He said. "I'm going to stick with you." He said quietly.

The Medallion faintly Buzzed.

-20-

After the Phone Call, Eileen waited in silence for some time. She tried the Television, but couldn't stand it's brashness. Instead, she headed into the Bedroom, sitting down at Henry's desk and opening his scrapbook, and then his Photo Portfolio. She looked through the notes Henry had accumulated, sighing in futility. She moved onto the Portfolio, looking at each picture seriously. A Lighthouse rising, the light behind it making it look Angelic. A duo of Strangers, made to seem like old friends or Lovers. A Landscape Photo taken with the focus set on a single waving dandilyon.

"Such a beautiful soul." she sighed. It wasn't fair that they could take someone as kind as him. Despite his attitude that seemed always apathetic, each action he took was utterly altruistic. She had seen the burns on his hands from where he had tried to pry Richard from his Electric chair. She had heard his humble stories. He was special. "Oh, Henry."

A deep, Yawning sound came from behind her, and she blinked, ice prickling up her back as she straightened up. She gasped weakly, feeling utterly horrible. She blinked turning slowly to see only a vast empty blackness behind her where the room had been before.

"No!" She could only faintly scream as she fell into the black.

-19-

Henry awoke again, this time sitting in the very center of the Apartment Complex's lobby, the strange and twisted version. His chilling memories returned as he stood, glancing around. It seemed as though he had entirely skipped the area of Walter's otherworlds with the Labyrinth of buildings and mazes. It made sense – he had pinned Richard Braintree's ghost in his own room, 207, with his last sword. He slowly made his way towards the hallway, the building seeming empty and silent. When he was last here, monsters hampered his every movement. So then why weren't there any monsters in this new journey? It was possible that, as Walter's mind was the one that invented them, his death meant they no longer existed. In any case, Henry was relieved that he could finish things without being horribly injured like last time.

The stairs led to the second floor, where Henry knew to find the man. He headed down the hall towards 207, remembering the events leading to Richard's death. He had seen him before, from time to time, across the courtyard and in the Lobby. But when Henry was locked in, Richard stopped by the door frequently. Henry wasn't sure, but he felt that part of Richard was genuinely concerned about his Neighbor – not a large part, but a part. The man was angry, and hated, and hateful. He was full of rage and was more than eager to unleash it. But he looked at the situation smartly, with the memory of Joseph's disappearance 2 years prior. Richard had an idea of what was going on, and he'd gotten some help from him. He owed him, and he had tried to save him. He had failed.

Henry opened the door, entering – he knew he would be welcome. He was not surprised to see Richard sitting in the same chair he died in, staring out towards the Opaque windows. Henry shut the door slowly, shuffling his feet. "Richard-..." he called faintly, and the man turned, his face gray and burned, his look jumpy, but not the twitching, glitching Ghost that he had been. Henry sighed, frowning. Richard and Cynthia had been the ones he had tried to help the hardest, and he didn't know what would happen to Cynthia. Now, he had to do something to turn Richard into a ghost, and unceremoniously kill him.

Richard glanced over, frowning and turning back ahead, "Figured you'd be around here..." he said slowly.

"What is going on here?" Henry said, exasperated. "Why d-..." he sighed, "Why is this world still here?" he stepped closer.

"We're still here, aren't we?" Richard said. "This is all we have left. A place our memories keep together." he stood, glancing at him. "Say... is that my Gun?" He scowled, "You took it?"

Henry swallowed weakly, "I didn't think you'd need it... being dead, you know..."

Richard scowled, turning with a Hmpf and walking over to the window. Henry wondered what he had to do, how to do it. He'd have to let Richard go, do something. What? Each time, he'd done something opposite to his initial reaction to the others. He had to turn his Lust away from Cynthia... with Andrew, he had to care... what would he have to do for Richard?

"This place is hell. You don't know how lucky you are." Richard said, looking out.

"I'm not Guilty." Henry Lied.

"Think I give a damn what you think? You didn't kill me." he turned back. Henry frowned. That didn't work.

"I-" he started, before hearing a scream. His eyes opened, and he turned. "Eileen-" his high, weak voice said, and he ran into the hallway, leaving Richard behind and running towards the stairs, sprinting up. He ran out of breath at the top, coughing and running through the door. He blinked, spotting the woman on the floor outside of her old room, gasping for air. Henry ran over and knelt by her, turning her over and looking at her. "Eileen?" he asked. The woman's eyes cracked open, afraid.

"Henry... I d-didn't mean to come in here..." she said. Henry didn't reply. "I-... what's going on? What's happened?"

Henry paused, "The... Victims are all that's left..." he swallowed weakly, "I have to change the way I looked at them, I..." he frowned, "They're the ones keeping this world together."

"But why?"

"...Because it's all they have left." Henry said after thinking on it for a second or two. Eileen paused as well, before nodding and standing. She would help him.

As Henry and Eileen arrived back at Room 207, Henry, this time, was shocked to see Richard Braintree was gone. "Eileen, do yo-"

The Ghost's crowbar swung down and hit Henry over the head, causing the man to stumble forward and bring his hands up, clutching it. His bag went sprawling, hitting the ground in a head. Braintree's ghost Twitched and turned, flinging Eileen into a wall. Henry blinked, groaning and starting to pull himself up, looking to the Bag. The Ghost did the same, but was quicker – Braintree teleported to it, lifting his crowbar.

"Aw hell..." he said, his face a mask of fear and exasperation, before he turned and grabbed a lamp and threw it at the electrical Ghost. Braintree teleported again, and Henry dove for the bag, scrambling for the Revolver. Before he could reach it, the Crowbar loomed and swung down with intense speed, the sharp end jamming into Henry's shoulder violently, dislocating and tearing open a wound. He screamed in Agony.

"Get away from him, Richard!" Eileen shouted, swunging a loose scrap of wood at the unaware Ghost, who took the hit and sluggishly moved away. Henry frowned, grimacing and trying to get up despite the pain, but failing. "Eileen... the Gun-" He managed, pulling the gun from the Bag. Eileen looked to it, but turned just in time to dodge another strike of Briantree's weapon. She turned, on her hands and knees, and sprung over to the bag, pulling out the gun.

The Ghost turned to face her, starting to swing and walk forward, and Eileen lifted the gun, taking aim and unloading all Six shots into the walking Demon. He fell back, and Eileen scrambled for a reload, trying to put each bullet in as Richard picked up again. Henry rolled over slightly, his face a mask of pain. Eileen gasped as Richard made it to her, lifting the Crowbar, and she unleashed the bullets she'd loaded. He paused, standing still for a moment, before collapsing in a heap to the side.

Henry coughed, blood bubbling up from his injury and staining his shirt and jacket. Eileen moved over, frowning, "Henry- What?"

"My shoulder..." Henry winced, frowning. Eileen nodded solemnly, knowing what she had to do. She reached over, taking a grip on the arm, and closed her eyes as she jammed and twisted the joint back into place. Henry gave another Anguished scream, his fingers grasping and ungrasping uselessly. She looked him over, and reached into his bag and took the First Aid kit, moving to patch the wound. She was just taking off his Jacket as a Dull, solid clunking sound came from higher up in the building. Henry blinked, trying to sit forward.

"The room... it's open."

-15-

_And all these nightmares I once had as a child  
The morning always came, it came too late  
What did my mind forget, forget to hide  
Could the nightmare be awake, I don't know_

In or out, up or down, never know its an illusion  
Round and round, on and on, every day spins my confusion 

Henry blinked, stepping into the room, the darkness hanging in it intense. His shoulder was bandaged and Eileen followed close behind him, wary. He could hear the voice speaking in the apartment, a faint melody to the voice. It was an low voice, strong and certain, but quieter than ever before. He gripped the Revolver, two bullets left, and examined the apartment. The walls were covered in blood, or possibly rust. The air was heavy and thick, and actually had a certain odd, uncomfortable feeling going into the lungs. Henry's Medallion twitched, and Eileen touched her head, feeling a faint headache. She shook her head, "It hurts..." she said.

"It starts out like that." The voice said, evidently coming from a bald figure standing in the middle of the Living room. "And it only gets worse." Joseph Schreiber turned to face them, his face shrouded in a shadow that was not caused by anything around him, but merely seemed to follow his face. "Did you get my notes?" he asked.

"...Yes..." Henry said weakly.

"Then you know what's going on."

"Not at all." Henry frowned. He wasn't as good of a Giver of Wisdom as he was when Walter was around. "Why send the notes? Why is Eileen here?"

"I brought her here, like you." he answered nonchalantly, tilting his head. His voice was more swift than before, but he still spoke in an unsettled slow pace.

"Why?" Henry frowned weakly.

"Because nineteen people died for nothing, Henry Townshend." he said, taking a step forward. Henry took a step back, leading Eileen behind him as well.

"That isn't our fault."

"It is more than you know." Joseph responded.

"How?"

"You stopped the Conjurer. You killed him... and now his work is incomplete."

The realization dawned on Henry, and he stepped back, "You want to finish the Sacriments."

"I want to be free. I'm trapped here. You left us behind, left this world to rot forever, along with those it claimed." he said.

"I can free you." Henry said, "I did it to the others." he frowned.

Joseph paced slightly to the side. "No you cannot. You guessed your way through... How? You had something for each of them. For Temptation – Sixteen... Cynthia Velasquez... you turned your Lust to chastity, like Walter. For Source, Seventeen, Jasper Gein... You turned the Pity to hate, like Walter had for the ten hearts he killed – including Jasper Gein's friends, Bobby Randolph and Sein Martin." His voice was slowing down, each word intonation and severe. "Watchfulness... Andrew Desalvo... you turned your apathy to concern, interest, any emotion, as Walter felt a passion for him. Chaos, Richard Braintree, you initially looked to him for help, For advise. Order... and now, you turned away from him, abandoning him, dismissing him as harsh and wrong, as Walter did." he stopped speaking, pausing heavily.

"But you-..." Henry frowned, at a loss for words.

"I was nothing to Walter, as you were nothing to him, other than the Tenants of the wrong apartment. Nothing more than the Giver of Wisdom to your Reciever. I, a journalist... you an introvert, a thinker..." he continued, "There is nothing to free me but the end of this. So let us end it."

"You're more than just that." Henry said, swallowing. "Despair." he said.

Joseph paused, taken at unawares. He shifted, backpedaling slightly. "Yes... Despair. There is no Hope in me."

Henry shook his head, "More than you could believe." he said. "I have to end this... I have to make myself... care." he said, looking to Eileen, "For more than just those who've cared for me. I need to be... more than that. And you, this... is my last Chance." he said, stepping forward. "So no more Apathy." He nodded. "We're all more than that."

Joseph blinked, taking another step back.

"You deserved more than this, but this is what you got." he said. "You got the Rawest deal. You got fucked by fate." he said, thinking back to what he could have said to Walter. "But this is wrong. And you know it. Don't Despair... there's more than that. There's hope no matter what. Not all stories end in macabre, and not all those locked away, wishing to be free, end up dying still captive."

The Medallion began to Vibrate, violently, the crack widening.

"I'm going to prove that. I'm going to show that life can become better. And I'm going to give you want you wanted." He stepped forward, "Freedom."

The world was falling apart at it's Hinges. The last traces of the Lost Memories were fading, the world blurring and changing, The room shifted, the blood and rust peeling away to show the wall beneath. Joseph, against the wall, screamed at the building light, a scream lost in the sound of the Change. And for one, short, ethereal second, the light shined right on his face; the shadows dispelled, and he was a man again.

And then, the world collapsed.

Henry opened his eyes, looking up at the rotating fan, and knew that room 302 was once more open for rent. He smiled faintly, leaning forward and trying to sit up, when a hand rested on his shoulder and pulled him back down.

"Let's stay here." Eileen said quietly, right next to him on the bed, the last traces of that world having transported them here. "So..." she said, turning to look at him, "what's this I hear about turning lust to Chastity?" She asked lightly. And, with a brief pause, Henry looked at her, and slowly slunk into a miracle - he gave a warm, loving, and kind smile. Broad, open, and happy. His eyes shined with the Caring he felt within his heart. Joseph was not the only one that was freed.

"I love you." he said, maintaining the smile, and she looked up at his Sympathy, his love, gave her best smile, which paled in comparison, and pulled him into a kiss.

**Well, that Grew beyond my initial expectation... It was about time that someone dealt with the Apathy. I hope you enjoyed my story.**


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